That Smile That Has Me Sold
by poetzproblem
Summary: "A drink," Quinn repeats skeptically, looking into the dilated brown eyes peering back at her from above a crooked grin. Rachel and alcohol have never been the best combination. Tenth in the Don't Blink series, immediately following 'Shake It Up I Like It Dirty.'


**Author's Note: **Tenth addition to the _Don't Blink_ series. Set directly after _Shake It Up I Like It Dirty._

Inspired by the Drunk prompt for Faberry Week, because how could I resist when I left Rachel tipsy in the last installment? Very late because of real life. Also inspired by Fabathrooms.

**Disclaimer: **I do not own Glee or the characters, I just like to play with them…strictly non-profit.

* * *

**That Smile That Has Me Sold**

_It's no wonder that you're such a natural  
__You got everything I want from your head to your toes  
__And underneath that smile that has me sold  
__Is your hundred million dollar soul  
__~Hundred Million Dollar Soul, Kate Voegele_

* * *

She gets a text from Rachel before lunch—just a cute little update about her morning yoga class and the inhuman positions into which her instructor can contort her body (and there may be a sexual innuendo buried in there)—and, as always, she ends it with an _I love you _and a heart_. _Quinn smiles every time she sees those words blinking up at her. She spares a moment for a reciprocal text, and proceeds with her (boring) day without a second thought. It doesn't occur to her that anything could be wrong until five o'clock comes and goes, and Quinn's phone remain suspiciously silent. In the past, this wouldn't have bothered her in the least, but in the weeks since Rachel Berry had led her to a bench in Central Park, confessed to harboring deep and complicated feelings for her, and then proceeded to kiss her senseless, Rachel's slightly compulsive relationship tics have manifested in the form of daily phone calls at precisely five o'clock on weekdays—excepting Thursdays, when they inevitably spend their afternoon together.

Quinn feels giddy every time she remembers their first kiss, and everything that's followed, especially last Thursday afternoon, and how it had turned into a Friday of playing hooky for the both of them, and eventually morphed into a lazy Saturday morning. Quinn had phoned in sick on Friday, just to be able to stay in bed with Rachel, cuddle for a little longer, and make love a few more times. She'd never expected Rachel to blow off her show on Friday night for the same reason, but that's exactly what she'd done. Quinn doesn't even feel all that guilty about it—in fact, it kind of thrills her. She's waited a long time to be loved by Rachel Berry.

She checks her phone again—it's only the third time, or maybe the sixth—but it's still devoid of any messages from Rachel. Shaking off the odd feeling that something is amiss, Quinn maneuvers her way through the herd of New Yorkers making their way home. It's hot, and she's growing increasingly irritable as she walks the five blocks home. She shifts her bag on her shoulder, and fishes out her phone (again) to send a text to Rachel, but by the time she unlocks the door of her apartment, she still hasn't heard from her girlfriend.

Quinn tosses her bag down in frustration, kicking off her heals and glaring at her silent phone. Glancing at the time, she decides to call the theater to see if Rachel is there yet, but before she can press the speed dial, she hears the tell-tale rattling of the lock on her apartment door. Her heart jumps, because the only other person who has a key is Rachel—Quinn had given it to her just last week.

Quinn rushes to the door, expecting it to open, but it doesn't. Instead, she hears Santana's muffled, but distinctive, voice from the hallway. "Jesus F. Christ, Berry. Give me the damn key."

Quinn frowns, her heart not calming in the slightest at Santana's unexpected presence, and she wrenches her door open. In the split second before the two bodies stumble into her apartment, Quinn registers the sight of Santana hunched over, with one hand holding a key, and the other wrapped intimately around Rachel's waist—Rachel, who is clinging to Santana for all she's worth.

The two women stagger across the threshold, and both of Santana's arms circle around Rachel, catching her and holding her flush against her body. Santana falls heavily against the nearby wall while Rachel shakes with laughter.

"What the hell?" Quinn growls.

"Fuck, Q. Some warning would have been nice," Santana complains, shifting Rachel against her until she's mostly standing on her own. Rachel's grinning face turns, and her eyes widen in surprised delight when she sees Quinn.

"Hey, girlfriend," she squeals happily, immediately untangling herself from Santana, and practically falling into Quinn, who instinctively catches her around her waist. Rachel's arms circle Quinn's shoulders, and she burrows her nose into her throat.

Quinn feels her own eyes widen with realization. "Oh, my God. Are you drunk?" she asks Rachel incredulously.

"No, I most certainly am not," Rachel answers haughtily, leaning back farther than necessary to look at Quinn, and nearly pulling them both off balance in the process. Rachel giggles a little, and glances back at Santana. "Tell her, San."

Quinn's eyebrows inch up as she looks at her friend. "San?" she questions, wondering when Rachel started using cutesy nicknames on Santana Lopez.

Santana just shrugs, "Berry's juiced."

Rachel snorts, pressing her face back into Quinn's neck as she laughs. Quinn scowls at Santana, who's snickering as she watches them. She's obviously nowhere near as drunk as Rachel, and Quinn's irritation spikes. "What did you do, Santana?"

"Hey, all I did was invite her to lunch," Santana defends, holding up her hands. "It's not my fault your girl is such a lightweight."

"Lies and slander," Rachel argues, lifting her head, and swaying slightly in the circle of Quinn's arms. "She invited me for a drink...at a bar...which I had."

"_A_ drink?" Quinn repeats skeptically, looking into the dilated brown eyes peering back at her from above a crooked grin. Rachel and alcohol have never been the best combination, and it looks like the alcohol has kicked Rachel's adorable little ass once again.

Rachel's already flushed cheeks grow darker. "I may have had two," she admits in a loud whisper.

"Two Sangrias and four glasses of wine," Santana helpfully corrects.

"Santana," Quinn hisses, "she has a show tonight."

"Not anymore."

"Understudies are beautiful things," Rachel exclaims, sliding her hands over Quinn's shoulders, and patting them reassuringly. "I told Santana...I said, _Santana, my understudy is beautiful._ Not as beautiful as you are, Quinn," Rachel assures her with drunken nod. "A-Amanda cannot compare to your incan...incandesh," she frowns, smacking her lips, "in can dessss," she tries again, frowning and shaking her head, "your beauty. You're still the prettiest girl I've ever met. So, so pretty," she repeats, pressing closer and lifting a hand to cup Quinn's cheek. "I just love looking at you," Rachel says with an air of wonder in her voice that has Quinn blushing, "your amazing eyes, and gorgeous mouth," the pad of her thumb traces Quinn's lower lip, "and I love touching you." She demonstrates this by stroking her fingers down Quinn's throat until they dip under the collar of her blouse, following the edge of the silk until they're dancing over Quinn's clavicle. "Especially when you're naked," she adds earnestly.

"Rachel!" Quinn squeaks in embarrassment.

Santana doubles over in laughter, wrapping an arm around her stomach, and Quinn feels her face heating all the way to the tips of her ears. Rachel studies her with a serious expression, "Can we get naked now?"

Santana chokes on her laugh, crinkling her nose, "Jesus, Berry, keep it in your pants until I'm gone."

Rachel glances down at her legs, "But I'm not wearing pants."

This sets Santana off again, and Quinn shakes her head. "This isn't funny, Santana," she scolds, but she has to bite into her lower lip to keep from smiling.

"Oh, it so is," Santana counters, pointing at Quinn knowingly. "Your girl is fucking hilarious when she's tanked. Kind of extra touchy-feely, though," she warns, as if Quinn doesn't already know this fact about Rachel. "You should probably make sure she doesn't drink in public, or you'll be beating bitches off her with a stick."

Quinn narrows her eyes at Santana's smirk. She's known her long enough to recognize when her friend is holding what she considers to be valuable information. Quinn opens her mouth to question Santana, but Rachel twists around in her arms, and shakes a finger at Santana. "I do not condone violence, Santana. And, in any case, Quinn is the only bitch I want to touch."

"Excuse me?" Quinn huffs, cutting a look a Rachel.

Rachel doesn't seem the least bit remorseful. She smiles up at Quinn, "'S'true, baby."

Santana laughs again, pushing off the wall. "On that note, I'm gonna leave you two bitches to do...whatever freaky things you do when you're alone."

Rachel smiles wider. "'Kay," she extracts herself from Quinn's side, haphazardly throwing her arms around Santana in a drunken hug. "I had so much fun today," she gushes, letting go of Santana and stepping back with a wobble. Quinn reaches out to grasp her waist again, afraid that she's going to fall. Rachel hooks her arm around Quinn's shoulder, leaning into her for support. "Next time, I'll find you a pretty, not-straight waitress to appreciate your Latin flava," Rachel promises.

Santana glances at Quinn almost guiltily, and she feels a shiver of apprehension prickle at the back of her neck. Santana sighs, "Yeah, I'm sure you will, half-pint."

"Latin flava?" Quinn demands, wanting to know what inside joke she's suddenly missing. Since when do Rachel and _Santana_ have inside jokes? "And what waitress? What the hell is she talking about, Santana?"

"That's a fun story for another time, Q. Right now, you have a blitzed Berry to sober up."

"Blitzed Berry," Rachel repeats, pressing a hand over her mouth as she snorts out a laugh. She coughs a little, then sniffles, trying to stifle her lingering giggles. "She's funny. When did she get so funny, Quinn?"

"She already called herself out sick after drink number four, so you don't have to worry about that," Santana tells her, turning to open the door. "It's been a blast."

"Don't think you're off the hook, Santana. We will be having a discussion about this."

"Oh, I look forward to it, Q," she says with a wicked smirk.

"What does that mean?" Quinn calls after her, frustrated when the door slams in her face. It's not like she can chase after Santana when she has Rachel wrapped around her like a clinging vine. "What does she mean, Rachel?"

Quinn cringes at the faint whining note in her voice, but she's just so...confused. And frustrated. Rachel never mentioned any plans to meet Santana today, and the next thing she knows, her girlfriend is being delivered to her apartment drunk and rambling about waitresses. She wants to know what Rachel and Santana were up to this afternoon—or more precisely, what Santana was up to, because that woman still has a talent for scheming and stirring up trouble, even after all these years.

Rachel turns into her arms, and begins to run the pads of her fingers over Quinn's silk blouse, plucking at the buttons as she passes over them. "Mmm...I think…she's going to break her promise to not inform you of the appreciation I hold for certain ass…aesthetics," she mutters distractedly, still fascinated with the material under her hands. Her dark brows furrow, and she frowns, "Why are you still dressed?" she wonders aloud, slipping the top button of Quinn's blouse through the eye-hole, and swiftly moving on to the next before Quinn realizes what she's doing.

Quinn gently bats her girlfriend's hands away. "Rachel, stop that."

"Nope," Rachel refuses, popping the word, and goes back to opening Quinn's blouse. "I find myself suddenly at loose ends for the evening, and you know how I hate to be idle."

Quinn shakes her head, smiling a little at how dexterous Rachel can be, even drunk. She takes Rachel's hand and holds them away from her body. "You need to sit down before you fall down, and I need to get you some water, and make some coffee to...wait," she stops, frowning in realization as she studies Rachel's intense expression—lower lip caught between her teeth, and dark eyes narrowed on the gaping fabric of Quinn's blouse, as if she's trying to figure out how to finish undressing Quinn without her hands. "Why are you back to speaking in overly verbose sentences?"

Rachel runs her tongue over her lower lip to soothe the bite, dropping her chin a bit and grinning sheepishly at Quinn. "I may not be quite as inebriated as I led Santana to believe." She easily escapes Quinn's suddenly lax grip, and slides her hands back inside Quinn's blouse, lightly scraping her nails over the skin and leaving gooseflesh in her wake. "I didn't want her to overstay her welcome," Rachel husks.

Quinn swallows heavily and stares at Rachel. It's becoming increasingly difficult to make sense of the situation when Rachel's hands are working their magic on her body. "But you were at bar with her all afternoon?" she clarifies needlessly.

"Yep," she affirms with another pop.

"Drinking, obviously, because you smell like a vineyard," Quinn points out, although the wine on Rachel's breath is not entirely unpleasant.

"Well, yes. I'm certainly not sober," Rachel admits, "and I'm in no condition to perform on stage tonight, but I promise you that I'll remember everything in the morning," she purrs, slipping her hands up under the now open material of Quinn's blouse, and pushing it from her shoulders.

"Rachel," she warns, tugging her blouse back into place, to Rachel's obvious annoyance.

Completely undeterred, Rachel slips her arms around Quinn's waist, and begins to place feather light kisses along the underside of her jaw. It's nice—more than nice—and Quinn's eyes flutter closed as she tips her head back to allow Rachel more access. She almost lets herself forget that she shouldn't be encouraging Rachel, because despite her remarkably stout vocabulary, and deft fingers, she's definitely more than a little tipsy, and certainly not functioning at full capacity.

"You know," Rachel murmurs between kisses, "Finn once told me…that I'm a needy drunk. I think he was right...because I _need_ you."

Quinn puffs out an annoyed breath, gently pushing Rachel away. "You must be drunk if you're mentioning that name while you're trying to seduce me." Talk about a mood killer.

Rachel's lower lip juts out, and she hooks her fingers into the waistband of Quinn's skirt to keep her from retreating too far. "I shouldn't have to try so hard," she grumbles, looking up at Quinn with sad eyes. "Don't you want me?" she whimpers, knowing just how to tug at Quinn's heart. She pulls at Quinn's skirt despondently, "Baby?" Rachel's lips quirk, and her adorable pout turns into a grin, "Don't you want me...oh o-oh," she sings, perfectly in key.

Quinn can't help laughing, "I'm not singing with you, sweetie."

"Then you really should be kissing me," she insists, swaying forward and brushing a kiss across Quinn's lower lip. Quinn reaches out and curls her palms around Rachel's hips. She sighs against Rachel's mouth, unwilling to deny herself a taste of Chardonnay flavored Berry, and she feels Rachel's smile of victory just before she deepens the kiss.

Quinn doesn't think she'll ever get tired of this—being able to kiss Rachel whenever she wants. She spent a good portion of the last six years watching Rachel's mouth dance around every word she spoke and every note she sang—of which there were many—and wondering what those lips would feel like, and taste like, against hers. Quinn doesn't have to wonder anymore. She can feel, and taste, and explore at her leisure.

But not right now, because Rachel's arms are clumsy around her neck, and she's leaning heavily on Quinn, and her kissing technique is getting a little bit sloppy. Quinn hugs Rachel a little closer, gazing at her with a soft smile. Drunk Rachel really is kind of cute, but Quinn needs to sober her up, and then find out exactly why she was out drinking with Santana Lopez. It's not that she's angry, or jealous, or insecure. It's mostly that she's annoyed that her best friend and girlfriend went out without her knowledge, and now it feels like they're keeping some kind of secret from her that could end up biting her in the ass when she least expects it, destroying all of the fragile happiness that she's only just beginning to believe will be a permanent thing.

Okay, maybe she is a little insecure, but it wouldn't be the first time that her life's been on the right track, only to end up being horrifically derailed.

Rachel's hazy eyes meet hers, growing more focused as they search for all her deepest secrets—at least, that's what it always feels like to Quinn. She trails a hand up the nape of Quinn's neck, burying fingers into her hair, and gently scratching at the base of her scalp in a way that instantly settles her. "Love you," Rachel says simply, honestly, and Quinn's darker thoughts evaporate.

"I love you, too, Rach," she sighs. "Even when you show up drunk on my doorstep, and won't tell me what you and Santana were doing alone at a bar on a Tuesday afternoon while I was at work."

Rachel ignores her petulant tone, having developed a surprisingly high tolerance for it over the years. "She invited me for a drink. I went. I drank. We talked about you," she says with a sweet smile, playing with Quinn's hair. "And we talked about me, of course."

"Of course," Quinn echoes, rolling her eyes.

"And we talked about you and me," Rachel punctuates this revelation with a soft kiss, "but don't worry, baby, I didn't tell her any intimate details of our passionate encounters." Quinn smiles, both at Rachel's careful phrasing, and at the memory of those encounters. "I merely reassured her that we are blissfully happy, and that I have no intention of ever breaking your heart," she vows, trailing her hand down over Quinn's shoulder, and farther south until it's positioned over her chest. Quinn relaxes against her, understanding that, once again, Santana was butting in where she doesn't belong in the name of friendship. "I love your heart."

Quinn's eyebrow quirks at the feel of Rachel's fingers gently kneading her left breast through her bra, "Sweetie, that's not my heart."

"Close enough," Rachel shrugs, grinning up at her cheekily.

"Why am only just finding out what a horny drunk you are?" Quinn is only half-joking. She's seen Rachel drunk a handful of times over the years, enough to know that her natural inclination to touch people is magnified, and she can get a little bit clingy, but her behavior has never been overtly sexual. Quinn would certainly remember if Rachel had ever been like _this_ before.

"I don't think I'm like this with anyone else," Rachel answers, and Quinn wonders for a moment if she voiced her thoughts out loud. "It's...kind of all you, baby. I just really wanna touch you all the time. All. The. Time," Rachel enunciates, grazing her fingers over Quinn's ribs and belly. "It's a little bit scary," she confesses quietly.

Quinn swallows thickly, nodding. "Yeah, for me, too." She's never needed anyone like this before, and not just physically, but emotionally. Rachel is it for her—she always has been. It's terrifying, and exhilarating, and wonderful, and exasperating, and amazing, and so perfectly _right_. Knowing that Rachel feels even a fraction of what she feels makes her heart soar.

"But I like it," Rachel admits.

Quinn laughs, "Me, too," she agrees, covering Rachel's hands with her own. "C'mon, lush," she prompts, stepping back, and urging Rachel to follow.

Rachel grins widely. "Bed?"

"No, shower," Quinn tells her with a smile, guiding Rachel toward the bathroom, "As in, a nice cold one."

Rachel groans, dragging her feet. "Change it to hot, and join me. Naked."

"I think that could be hazardous to our physical well-being with you in this state," she quips, but she's more tempted than she cares to admit. For all the hours that they'd spent exploring one another last weekend, all the many ways that Quinn had touched, tasted, and worshiped Rachel's body, their shower time had remained private for both of them. The physical aspect of their relationship is still so new, and Quinn doesn't want to push boundaries that Rachel might prefer not to cross once she's fully sober.

"You think too much," Rachel complains, "and it's a fallacy that cold showers are a remedy for intoxication."

Quinn shakes her head, still smiling as she stops Rachel just inside the door, "But they do help with sexual frustration," Quinn points out, much to Rachel's dismay.

Quinn turns to open the tiny vanity under her sink, bending to retrieve a fresh towel. She immediately realizes her mistake when she feels a hot, curvy body mold to her back, and a pair of determined hands slide under her still open blouse, cupping her breasts through her bra.

Groaning, Quinn straightens, dropping the towel in her hand onto the edge of the sink, and reluctantly attempts to peel Rachel off of her. "My God, you are obsessively single-minded, even when you're drunk."

"I'm exceedingly goal oriented," Rachel corrects, pressing closer to Quinn and working her blouse down over her shoulders for the second time. "You love that about me," she states with confidence.

Quinn sighs, surrendering her shirt to Rachel because she knows that her girlfriend won't give up. "About ninety-five percent of the time," she concedes, turning in Rachel's arms the moment she feels the material fall away from her heated skin. Before Rachel can tackle the next phase of her mission, Quinn captures her hands, deliberately entwining their fingers. "The other five...you're kind of exhausting, sweetheart."

Rachel's grin slips, and she glances down to their joined hands. When she meets Quinn's eyes again, she looks like a little girl who's just been caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Quinn figures the comparison is pretty apt. "Oh," Rachel breathes out, "this is the five percent, isn't it?"

Quinn smiles, "Why don't you just take a nice, relaxing shower, and wash the scent of bar off of you, while I go brew a fresh pot of coffee, okay?" Rachel looks over at the shower stall with a frown, then back at Quinn with wide eyes, and—God, is her lip actually quivering? "Oh, no…don't you dare pout at me," she warns.

"But, Quinn," she whines, "it's such a big, lonely shower."

Quinn chuckles lightly. Her shower really isn't all that big—it is an apartment in New York City, after all. "I'm not taking advantage of you while you're drunk, Rachel. When you sober up a little more, we'll revisit the discussion." Because frankly, Quinn's currently topless in front of her very sexy girlfriend who wants to have shower sex, and she's finding it increasingly difficult to remember why she shouldn't.

Rachel's expression goes soft with understanding, "Aw...you're being gentlemanly." Quinn frowns in annoyance at the description, but Rachel doesn't seem to notice. "That's sweet, but baby, I _want _you take advantage of me. In fact," she purrs, teasingly nipping Quinn's lower lip, "I just want you to _take_ me."

Quinn's breath hitches, and she eyes the shower, briefly contemplating the logistics. She doesn't think Rachel is really sober enough. "Later," she sighs, ignoring the way her body aches in protest as she sets Rachel away from her.

"Promise?"

"If you don't fall asleep on me," Quinn replies with a grin, quickly ducking down to retrieve her blouse from the floor. "I'll put the coffee on," _and then stick my head in the freezer to cool off_, she thinks, inching toward the door.

"Quinn," Rachel stops her, turning around and sweeping her long hair forward over her shoulder, "Unzip me?"

Breathing deeply, Quinn drapes her blouse over the edge of the vanity, and grips the top of Rachel's dress, gently working the zipper down. She's unable to resist trailing her fingers down Rachel's naked back, and she has to bite back a moan at the distinct lack of any bra straps.

Rachel apparently doesn't feel any need to restrain herself, and she lets out a long, low hum of appreciation. "You know, it's really not fair that you're undressing me with no intent to follow through on what would normally follow."

Quinn meets Rachel's eyes in the mirror over the sink, and she unconsciously licks her lips at the sight of their reflection. She watches Rachel's gaze hungrily roam over her features. Slowly, deliberately, Quinn leans forward, never breaking eye contact as she gently sweeps the loose material of Rachel's dress an inch to the side, and presses a lingering kiss to the skin of her exposed shoulder, nipping the flesh with her teeth. Rachel moans, tipping her head back, but keeps her eyes locked on Quinn. Her chest heaves with the force of her indrawn breath.

Quinn lifts her head and grins wickedly, loving the reaction she can so easily evoke in her girlfriend. It's kind of a rush. "Take your shower, Rachel," she instructs, removing her hands from the tempting body in front of her.

Rachel scowls, "Tease."

Quinn chuckles and lightly slaps Rachel's ass. "You know it."

She starts to reach for her blouse, but Rachel stops her with a soft plea. "Run the water for me? I don't know how your shower works."

Rachel completely fails in her attempt at innocence—it's probably the alcohol messing with her already spotty ability to be subtle. Quinn refrains from pointing out that her shower pretty much works the same way that Rachel's does—that every shower does—and instead steps around her girlfriend with an indulgent roll of her eyes, and slides the glass door open. She leans into the stall, and twists the faucet handles, careful to test the water temperature. She's not kidding about Rachel needing a cold shower, but she doesn't want her to completely freeze. The hot water in the building is pretty scarce under the best of circumstances. Luckily, it's summer, and not the dead of winter, so it shouldn't be too bad.

Quinn isn't even surprised when she turns to find Rachel already naked. Her shoes have been kicked haphazardly across the floor, and her dress and panties are in a pile at her feet. Hissing out a breath, Quinn closes her eyes and counts to five, silently praying for patience.

"Help me?" When Quinn opens her eyes, Rachel is right beside her with all of that smooth, tan skin on display so very close to her. "So I don't slip and fall," she adds, swaying ever-so-slightly on her feet, and reminding Quinn that Rachel is, in fact, still unmistakably tipsy.

Sighing, she takes Rachel's hand, bracing her as she carefully steps over the foot high rim of the stall. Once she's safely inside, Quinn relaxes her grip and starts to let go, but Rachel has other ideas, and grabs onto Quinn with both hands, tugging her forward. Unexpectedly pulled off balance, Quinn screeches as she stumbles into the shower, reaching out her free hand for the wall and attempting to plant her foot on the tiled floor. Her heart lurches, but Rachel is there to catch her (and later she'll realize how sturdy on her feet Rachel actually is) so Quinn doesn't fall, but she ends up with her body pressed against Rachel's wet, naked form, with the shower spray coming down on her head.

"Rachel!" she sputters, glaring at her girlfriend as she finds her footing.

Rachel is unrepentant, smirking up at her. "Oops. You're all wet," she needlessly points out, curling her arms around Quinn's waist. "Guess you should get naked now." She finds the zipper on Quinn's skirt, sliding it down easily.

"You're impossible," Quinn growls, pushing her fingers through her wet hair. She supposes she'll be taking a shower now. She really should be pissed, but looking down at the woman she's in love with, she can't seem to summon an ounce of ire. She kind of walked right into this, anyway. At least she isn't still wearing her silk blouse—it's one of her favorites.

"Mmhmm," Rachel agrees, "shut up and let me strip you, Fabray." She tugs the water-heavy skirt down until it puddles onto the shower floor with a slap.

"I'm never letting you go out alone with Santana again. She's such a bad influence."

Rachel one-handedly flicks open the clasp of her bra, her other hand already slipping underneath the loosened material and teasing Quinn's nipple. "You have no idea," she drawls with a wicked grin, and Quinn's eyes widen.

"Where did you learn to do that?" she demands.

"You'd be surprised what skills you can pick up backstage in the theater." Rachel tosses the bra out onto the bathroom floor, and curls her fingers under the waist of Quinn's panties, dragging them down. She bends over, catching herself when she slips a little, and tosses Quinn's skirt and panties out of the shower to join her bra. Quinn helps her stand, and slides the door closed.

"You'll be cleaning up that mess you just made on my floor."

"Mmm…totally worth it," Rachel murmurs, leaning up to kiss her.

Rachel's mouth is hot, and wet, and still sweet from the wine, and Quinn drinks in the flavor. The spray from the shower beats down on her shoulders, splashing droplets over her skin. There's something undeniably erotic in the way their bodies slide together, slick curves fitting into slick curves.

Quinn has never tried this—not with anyone else—because it's always seemed so much more intimate to her than a darkened bedroom with the cover of sheets to hide under when she feels the need. She supposes that she hasn't trusted her previous partners enough to be so completely vulnerable with them, but that isn't an issue with Rachel. She will gladly lay herself bare for this woman, and give into her every whim.

She moans when Rachel presses closer, but the movement causes her to sway backwards, and suddenly the water is raining down over their heads. They break the kiss, jerking away from the spray, and Rachel laughs unreservedly while Quinn wipes a hand over her face, trying to brush away the excess water. "We're going to drown," she grumbles.

This only makes Rachel laugh harder, and she hugs Quinn tighter as her body shakes. Rachel's laughter is infectious, and Quinn is soon laughing right along with her. Rachel nuzzles her nose into Quinn's throat as she struggles to get herself under control until only a few occasional giggles escape. "This does look much sexier in the movies," she finally observes.

Quinn gazes down at her girlfriend with an indulgent smile, "What movies have you been watching?" Rachel's cheeks grow ruddy, and Quinn gasps, "Rachel Berry, have you been watching porn?"

Rachel groans, hiding her face in Quinn's shoulder. "This is not going according to plan," she mutters.

"You had a plan?" Quinn asks, genuinely surprised. She's almost certain that everything that's happened since she opened her door is the result of a series of spontaneous bursts of drunken inspiration from Rachel's overactive mind.

Rachel lifts her head, a familiar look of fierce determination on her face, and Quinn's belly erupts in butterflies. That look never fails to get her hot.

"Have one," Rachel corrects, quickly glancing around the small shower. "Switch with me," she instructs, gripping Quinn's upper arms, and slowly and carefully guiding her around in a small circle. Quinn stifles a laugh, following Rachel's lead until they've effectively swapped positions. Rachel backs her into the shower wall, then turns, and reaches up behind her to tilt the shower-head down slightly, so that it's no longer falling directly onto them. "That's better," she murmurs before she crashes back into Quinn, devouring her mouth.

Rachel steals Quinn's breath more effectively than the water, and she clings to Rachel's slippery back as she drowns in the flood of passion that Rachel unleashes. Quinn isn't a repressed teenager anymore—she's not the president of the celibacy club, or the closeted lesbian, or the almost virgin who'd only had sex one time and paid the price. She's an experienced, confident woman, and yet somehow, Rachel Berry can make her feel nervous, and excited, and completely reduce her to a hormonal wanton.

She curls her fingers into the curve of Rachel's ass, pulling her closer. They're both wet, in more ways than one, and the shower spray is misting Rachel's back, and her hair is messy and dripping and so sexy. Quinn moans, and Rachel takes this as encouragement. Her hands slip over Quinn's breasts and belly, and her lips begin to roam.

Quinn's eyelids flutter as she basks in the sensation, hazily watching Rachel slowly slide down her body, tasting the water droplets on her skin, and kissing every scar and stretch mark along the way. She makes Quinn feel almost grateful to have them because she knows that Rachel doesn't see them as imperfections, but as testaments to her strength and perseverance. Every one of them symbolizes a step on the journey she's taken to this moment, with this woman—the other half of her heart.

Rachel smiles up at her, and Quinn imagines, once again, that Rachel can read her innermost thoughts. "I love touching you," she repeats, tracing aimless patterns on Quinn's hips and thighs, "and I love tasting you." She places a soft kiss just below Quinn's bellybutton, teasing the sensitive skin with the tip of her tongue

Quinn's stomach quivers. "Are you sure you want to do this…here?" she clarifies, because she's so aroused right now that she's done with putting off Rachel's advances, but she's not opposed to moving this into her bedroom.

"Spread 'em, Fabray," Rachel demands mischievously, nudging at Quinn's knee. Quinn laughs, but she shifts her weight, bracing herself. Rachel ducks down, trailing her lips along Quinn's inner thigh, before she unexpectedly pulls Quinn's right leg over her shoulder.

Quinn lets out a squeak of surprise, "Rachel?"

Her lover gazes up at her with clear, dark eyes. "Trust me," she pleads softly, firmly wrapping her arm around Quinn's thigh. Of course she trusts Rachel, but she's not sure that she trusts the alcohol flowing through her system, or the slickness of shower. Quinn takes a deep breath, planting her foot against the frame of shower door to keep her balance, and then Rachel's mouth is hot against her sensitive flesh, and that skillful tongue dips inside to tease her.

Gasping, Quinn tangles her fingers into Rachel's hair and stares down into dark eyes as her hips instinctively rock forward. A hundred teenaged fantasies rise from the dark recesses of her mind—secret, forbidden thoughts of Rachel on her knees just like this, in bathrooms and locker rooms and dorm rooms and train stations. Quinn had tucked them all away, only occasionally letting them out, late at night, in the quiet darkness of her bedroom, but this isn't a fantasy. She _has _Rachel. She can live every one of her secret desires, and the reality is so much better.

The realization spikes her pleasure and makes her moan. Rachel's grip on her thigh tightens, and her other hand slips between Quinn's legs, and suddenly Quinn can feel Rachel everywhere that matters. The connection is so complete, with Rachel under her, and inside her—body, heart, and soul. Dark eyes sparkle up at her, and the fingers driving her to madness curl.

"Fff-uck," Quinn growls, slamming her head back against the wall and squeezing her eyes shut. Her fingernails uselessly claw at the slippery tiles, searching for some kind of leverage so she doesn't just slide down into Rachel's mouth. Distantly, she reminds herself that this is why shower sex with drunk Rachel was probably a bad idea, but right now, she can't seem to care, because everything feels so fucking _good_. How did Rachel get so good at this so fast? Maybe she's naturally talented at everything she attempts. Maybe it's all that excessive talking that used to annoy Quinn so much when they were in school—stupid, stupid sixteen year-old her. If she could go back and tell herself how she'd someday benefit from that mouth that was constantly in motion, and those hands that she used to mock...

"Oh, God," she groans, tipping her head forward and forcing her eyes open because she needs to see Rachel. The vision of that dark head between her legs pushes her higher, faster. The hum of the water transforms into a roar in her ears, and her world narrows down to Rachel's eyes and Rachel's tongue and Rachel's fingers and the ripples of pleasure that are steadily building into a tidal wave, swelling until it breaks, and Quinn is pulled under.

Her knees buckle, and she can't hold her weight anymore. She starts to slip down the wall, but Rachel catches her, guiding her back up while she somehow manages to stand without injuring the both of them. Quinn feels Rachel press against her, holding her, and she clings to her like a lifeboat as she swallows mouthfuls of air, trying to surface from the ocean of bliss that Rachel cast her into.

Her eyes slowly refocus, and Rachel is the first thing she sees, looking a little bit like a drowned poodle—albeit, an adorable one. Quinn smiles, reaching out weakly to push Rachel's wet hair out of her eyes. "Are you okay?"

Rachel giggles, nodding, "We didn't drown."

"Yet."

Rachel kisses her softly, and Quinn tastes herself instead of the wine. Her body is pleasantly heavy, and her heart is light, and she's perfectly content in the moment. She was right about the shower. It was the perfect cure for sexual frustration—hers, anyway. Rachel's, maybe not so much.

Quinn can tell that her girlfriend is still feeling the effects of the alcohol, mostly because of the goofy grin she's wearing, and the way her head falls onto Quinn's shoulder while she rubs against her. Quinn laughs lightly, nuzzling Rachel's hair and dropping a quick kiss to her temple. "I will never look at this shower the same way again," she murmurs, and Rachel erupts in laughter, her body shaking.

She leans back, eyes dancing with merriment. "We do seem to make a lot of memories in bathrooms."

Quinn chuckles, skating her hands over Rachel's back, and leaning down to kiss her shoulder. It's a weird habit that they'd fallen into back in high school that they've never really managed to break. "I think I like this one the best," she decides.

"Mmmm. Me too," Rachel agrees, tucking her head back into Quinn's shoulder. "Baby?"

"Hmm?"

"I think I'm gonna have a hangover tomorrow."

Quinn smiles, hugging Rachel tighter. "Yeah, probably."

"Will you take care of me?" Rachel asks in a small voice.

"Always," Quinn promises, relaxing her hold on Rachel and reaching around to grab the bottle of body wash from the shelf. The action jostles Rachel from her comfortable position, and she frowns as she lifts her head and watches Quinn.

"What are you doing?"

"Taking care of you," Quinn answers simply, squirting a dollop of the wash into the palm of her hand and working up a nice lather. "You coerced me into this shower," she glides her hands over Rachel's shoulders, and down over her breasts, gently massaging the lather into Rachel's skin, enjoying herself immensely in the process, "and I'll be damned if we're wasting all this water, only to come out dirtier than when we got in."

Rachel's frown disappears, and the goofy grin comes back. "I wanna be dir-ir-ty," she sings.

"I swear if you start singing that song, I'm going to leave you to touch-a touch-a touch-a yourself," Quinn warns with a straight face, pausing her ministrations.

Rachel's smile widens, "You realize there's a song for that, too?"

Quinn sighs, but she can't fight her own smile. "What am going to do with you?" she asks softly.

"Touch me," Rachel invites, covering Quinn's hands with her own and guiding them lower.

Quinn happily obeys, mapping every wet, slippery inch of Rachel's body.

They get so much dirtier before they finally get clean.

* * *

**A/N:** Written partially because bazinga01 (thefrozentofu) commented on a Fabathroom photoset that Rachel and Quinn would be one of those couples who love shower sex, and the idea stuck in my mind.

Feedback is always appreciated.


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